


Origins

by NikitaSunshine



Category: Homeland
Genre: Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/pseuds/NikitaSunshine
Summary: This story is an attempt, as a friend said, to make Pinocchio into a real boy. To put meat on his bones. It's taken me about a year to finish, partly because I wasn't sure it was appropriate to share, also because it wasn't that easy to write, as it felt very personal. But here we are, and maybe there are some other people who feel a need for this as well. I hope it's worthy.For V- If it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have started this, and it certainly wouldn't look the way it does now.For elim- If it weren't for you, I definitely wouldn't have finished it.***CHAPTER 9 IS NEW***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elim_garak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/gifts), [vannigoggi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vannigoggi).



One foot in front of the other. So simple, but he’ll never take it for granted again.

Franny and Hudson run up ahead. She’s wearing her favorite purple hiking fleece and well worn boots, pigtails flying behind. Hudson off leash, floppy ears keeping the pace.

“How much do we need, Peter?”

“Mmmm, how about three boxes?”

“Three boxes? That's a lot of blackberries!”

“Well, we have a special guest coming today. We'll need extras.”

Franny spots a bush and begins picking. One in her mouth for every two in the box.

“Franny…”

“Sorry!”

It was a long road to get here. Many long roads. He'd had to agree to rehab. It was part of the deal. Painful, intensive rehab. And therapy. He'd always hated talking, but he had to admit that it helped. And medication. That was the hardest to accept, but he finally felt grounded, balanced. He knew reality from fantasy. He was himself again. Or some different version of himself.

He sits down on a fallen log, stretches his legs out in front of him. Franny hums while she works. She's quite the songbird these days. Hudson stays close by, seemingly aware their job is to protect her. He's the sweetest dog you could ever meet, eager to please, loyal as hell, but underneath, he has killer instincts. He's been trained to fight to the death.

*******

He was still John back then. Or at least he thinks he was. The memories are foggy; it was so long ago, and he was very young.

He's sitting in front of the tv, eating pink and green sugary cereal. No milk. He woke up on his own as usual, the house finally quiet. He climbed up on the counter and poured himself a bowl, then turned on the television. Learning his letters along with the other kids on the show. The closest things to friends he has.

He sat there so long he fell asleep again, until his mother came out of the back bedroom, a man close behind, someone he didn't recognize. The man cupped his hand at the back of his mom's neck, pushed a little, then walked out the front door, leaving it open. His mom followed behind, watching as he leaves.

She stands there for a minute, scratches her head before turning around, looking through him before suddenly seeming to notice him there. “Johnny,” she says. “Come here, sweet thing!"

She smells smoky sour but like herself underneath. Soft and warm. He wants to let himself go, give in to the feeling, but even this young, he knows it won't last.


	2. Chapter 2

Most people read in the evening, or the afternoon. Some do in the morning, but very few dare to read this early. It’s so quiet. Even the lake is still waking up. It seems to be stretching, tentative and shy, splashing a sleepy whisper under the pier. Right in the middle, though, it’s incredibly still, a glossy mirror.

Franny lifts her eyes from her book and tilts her head. She squeezes one eye shut, critically studying the edge of an old wooden table. The porch rail behind it is at a weird angle. She frowns for a moment, then breaks into a triumphant smile. Quinn shakes his head at her, freeing an arm from under the throw blanket and gently messing her hair.

His eyes crinkle. “It’s still tipsy.”

When they first got here, he wanted to fix it. It’s not a lot of work, two hours tops. But Franny said that the ‘tipsiness’ made it special.

Tipsy or not, it does its job. Right now it’s holding two tall mugs. One, a deep, creamy sweetness of cocoa topped with fluffy round drops of marshmallows. The other, a dark, saturated brown of strong coffee, no sugar. The crisp morning air condenses the steam into fluffy swirls of cotton candy, its scent mingling with the pine needles and clear water.

They sit side by side on two identical wooden chairs, just as they do each morning. Every once in a while Franny wiggles deeper in, making a loud squeaking sound, pulling the blanket all the way up to her chin. Her hands get too cold when exposed to the air, so she holds the book without taking them out from under the throw. When she needs to turn the page, she looks up at him, and just like that her wish comes true. When she wants to take a sip from her cocoa, she leans forward, and he carefully places the mug into her hidden palms, waits for her to finish, then puts it back onto the tipsy table.

“What sound is an ‘h’ after a ‘w’?” she asks.

“Show me.” He sets his own book on his knees and leans closer.

Struggling unsuccessfully to point, her fingers are still under the blanket, she bends over and sticks her nose towards the word she can’t read.

“Whisper,” Quinn laughs.

“Oh. Ok. Thank you.” She goes back to reading, quietly moving her lips as she does.

Time slows in the stillness of the leisurely morning, spreading above and around them. They both cuddle under the same comforter, an old, tattered quilt of purple swirls over faded white. Deep in thought, Franny tracks a purple line, following as far as it goes until it arrives at Quinn’s elbow. Her eyes crawl up the sleeve of his hoodie. He says nothing, lifting a curious brow.

She slams the book shut, spitting out her verdict of the story she just finished. “The tree is _not_ happy.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not. The book says _‘and the tree was happy’,_ but… how can it be happy when it lost everything?”

He sets her book on the table and gives her another sip of her cocoa, then lifts the comforter as a cue. Franny crawls onto his lap as he tucks the blanket around her. She curls up next to his chest.

“Was it lost or given?” he asks with a smile.

She nods slowly, the side of her head rubbing against his shoulder. She’s not sure she understands, but they both know she’ll keep thinking about it. He reads his book out loud now, picking up from where he left off. His voice carries over the lake, blending into the distant noises of the new day. Soon enough her mind’s eye sees an endless spiral of purple. Her eyelids grow too heavy to remain open, until she finally falls to sleep.

 

*************

 

His mother emerges from the bedroom, dressed now. She’s also carrying clothes for him, his “going out” clothes. “Let’s get these on you. Time for work.”

She helps him into his nicest brown pants and a long sleeve shirt, red and blue stripes, slightly faded in color and tattered at the ends of the sleeves. She wets his dark matted hair, working a comb through the tangles and parting it over to the side. She says he looks like a little man this way.

“Work” means dragging a wagon full of pies around different neighborhoods, going to door to door to sell them. His mom pulls the wagon between houses, but as they walk up the sidewalk she has him take the handle, tells him to look especially hungry. She knocks on the door and does the talking; he’s still too young to make the sale. But he’s been studying her technique and thinks he’ll be ready soon. He doesn’t let on, though. It really is a harder job than it looks.

Today they are keeping close to the house that they’ve been staying in lately. This means it’ll be a good day for him. Not too far to walk, back home at an earlier hour. Mostly, though, he’s happy because it means they will get to visit his favorite neighbor. Miss Ella is an older woman who seems to live alone. Her house is one of the nicer ones on the block: big front lawn, bright orange door, no bars on the windows. She always treats his mom nicer than the other neighbors do, and always buys a pie. She asks John what’s good that day. They always buy the pies from the corner store, so they always taste the same, but he plays along, suggests she buy the ones they bought that morning. On a good day, she invites him inside and lets him have a piece. But usually his mom says no; she needs him as a selling card.

Today is a good day. They reach Miss Ella’s house towards the end of their tour, and when she invites him inside his mom says yes. He’d sold her the blackberry pie that day and she gives him an extra large piece, heated up with ice cream on the side. She sits with him at the table, and he tries to keep himself from eating too quickly. He wants the food to last, and he wants the time in this safe house, as he’s come to think of it, to last as long as possible too. The ice cream, vanilla today, melts quickly from the heat of the pie, mixing with the blackberry juice to form a purple and white swirl. Miss Ella asks him what the swirls look like. She knows he won’t answer- he doesn’t really talk much- but she gives him a little bit of time to think about it nevertheless. In his mind, he thinks he sees slides and clouds and toothpaste and warm, fuzzy blankets. Eventually, Miss Ella says she sees a sunset and a storm and the Northern Lights.

He also comes to Miss Ella’s sometimes when things get hard at the house. He’s supposed to be in school, he knows, but he usually doesn’t make it. His mom wakes up too late, or isn’t feeling well, or hasn’t come home yet. He ends up spending a lot of time home alone. He’s often locked in his room “for safety.” But sometimes it doesn’t feel very safe in there, if there are too many strange noises or smells in the house, if someone is banging on the door, yelling.

The first time he came there, he’d been really worried that someone was going to break through, so he climbed out the window and ran over to her house. It was raining that day and she let him in, gave him a blanket and some hot milk. She didn’t ask him anything, which was good because he wasn’t going to answer. His mom had warned him about strangers asking questions so he knew better, though he wasn’t sure Miss Ella was really a stranger. But she did tell him that he was welcome to come over anytime he was scared or lonely or hungry. He tries not to come too often.

When his mom is done selling the pies that day, she picks him up and they walk the rest of the way home together. She says it’s been a good day for business; they’ve made enough to get something to eat from the bodega. He’s not really hungry after the pie and ice cream but makes a special spot in his stomach. He would never turn down an offer of food. They don’t always get a full meal. His mom’s in great spirits today, singing as she walks, making smiles at the sandwich maker. As they head home she talks about their future, how she’s going to get a real job, and they’ll get their own house, and John will have his own room, maybe even a dog. He lets himself get caught up in the fantasy, picturing their own large front lawn and a fridge full of fruit and milk, and cake instead of pies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey e- Thanks for the assist with the sweetness. Thanks for getting into my brain. Much love, as always!


	3. Chapter 3

They stand side by side in the kitchen by the counter. Franny up on a step stool, Quinn to her right. They work silently. There’s no need for words. They’ve performed this ritual together many times before.

While he gathers the ingredients for the pie, Franny lines up the blackberries in little rows like soldiers. Inspecting each one for imperfections. Popping those not passing muster into her mouth.

“Time for the crust?” he asks.

“Yep!”

Normally they would use something modern and electric, but today they draw the process out, doing everything by hand. It may be the last time they get to spend time like this again.

He lets Franny pour in the flour. It’s a messy job, but she’s earned the right to try. He sifts it through with his left hand. His therapist would be proud.

He passes her the salt and she uses a teaspoon to carefully measure the right amount, then adds a dash of sugar. Hudson lies at their feet, ready to catch any scraps.

“The butter, Franny.”

She hops down and runs to the freezer, pulls out the cubes.

They use a metal kitchen tool they found in the shed when they first arrived. An old hand-powered contraption with a crank on top and several dull but perfectly effective blades. They mash the butter until it’s in smaller, more workable pieces, then fold it into the flour mixture.The butter is ice cold, just as planned, and even for his trained muscles, it’s a tough job. Every once in a while he has to stop, take a break. Franny steps in, and when he’s ready to start again, she places her hands on top of his, pushing down with all she’s got. It’s a two person job, really. They don’t stop until it’s the consistency of grains of sand.

They take turns working the dough gently, one kneading while the other adds small spoonfuls of ice water. At times her hands get tired too, and he covers them with his own to give them more strength.

The moment it starts to come together, forming large lumps of buttery dough, she shapes it into a ball while he gets the plastic wrap. They dump out the mix, seal it up tight, and put it in the fridge.

That done, they have time now. They stare at each other’s hands, covered in messy clumps of flour and butter. Hudson comes to life and looks up at Franny, then the two of them look imploringly at Quinn. He gives a subtle nod of his head, and Franny lowers her hands for Hudson to clean. She laughs at the tickling of the dog’s tongue as Quinn turns to wash his hands at the sink, Hudson’s wagging tail brushing softly against the back of his legs. 

  


************

  


That winter, things get especially bad. His mom is home less and less, and the house is louder and crazier. When she does come home she looks tired and thin, her hair is messy. She talks like she doesn’t make any sense. More people are banging on the door, trying to break through. He knows there are other kids living here at times, but he doesn’t see them too much.

He’s spending a lot of time at Miss Ella’s house, still not talking. She doesn’t talk much either anymore, just stares at him as if he’s a question she’s trying to answer, a riddle she‘s trying to solve.

The police had come to houses they’ve stayed in before. Sometimes he and his mom are out when they first arrive and so they turn around, leaving their things behind. Knowing this is the end of the line for their stay, moving to the next room. Sometimes they’re home when it happens and they jump out the window and run with everyone else, or stay put and weather the storm. The police ask him questions sometimes, and he keeps his mouth shut. They ask his mom too, and she does her best to play up the positive. Saying he’s fed and clothed and loved. She’s explained to him that not everyone agrees with the life they’re living and that if they think badly enough, they could take him away from her. He understands enough to know that it isn’t all good for them, but he can’t think of anything worse than being apart from her. How will that make things any better?

One night it’s especially cold and snowing and the heat is off, and it’s not really any better inside than outside. His mom is home but with someone in another room, and he’s locked out. He tries to hide in their room, but he’s worried. His spidey sense is telling him something is very wrong. He peeks outside and sees lots of people in the living area. They’re sleeping or huddled together, acting strange like his mom has been lately. He works up the nerve to explore, look for something to eat. There’s glass on the floor, broken bottles, baby bottles, pill bottles, pills that may be candy. One looks like a tic tac. The grownups had given him some before, promised it would be ok. There’s no one awake to give him permission. He takes a chance.

He walks through the house to the kitchen, looking in the fridge for food. He starts feeling dizzy, thirsty. He takes a drink from a glass on the counter. It looks like apple juice but tastes like bad breath. He pours some water from the sink into the glass and takes a big gulp. It’s a little better this way. But he’s still feeling light-headed, fuzzy. He’s not sure it’s a bad thing.

He sits on the floor to see what happens next. Another child comes in, staring blankly. A girl who’s maybe a little bit older, or maybe younger. Hard to say. He scoots over and she sits next to him. He hands her the glass and she takes a sip. They watch as a man, barely dressed despite the cold, stumbles in the door. They both look up but don’t move. His spidey sense is going off again, but his body isn’t cooperating.

A bright light shines through the window. Red and blue, and it would be beautiful like fireworks on the Fourth of July, if it weren’t for the sounds of sirens instead of the boom-pop he expected. His curiosity gets the best of him and he rises to look out the window, the girl following his lead. They see men rushing forward, and in his altered state he sees an army in helmets and armor like ninja turtles. He’s too amused and entertained to get scared like he normally would, just stares and waits. The turtles gather at the door, some going around the back of the house, yelling and knocking. The man in the doorway to the kitchen suddenly looks up and around, stumbling.

The turtles finally tear the door down, rush inside. They look prepared for a battle, but there isn’t going to be one. Everyone’s too sleepy to put up much resistance. He and the girl watch as they go room to room, dragging people out, some of them fighting more than others. He realizes they are going into the room where his mom is staying.

He watches as they drag her out, and she spots him through the doorway of the kitchen. They both come alive as they realize what’s happening. It’s all through a fog but she’s yelling now, kicking and punching, calling his name. He’s mouthing his name back to her, then hears himself as if from far away. He starts to call out for her, and it’s not even the sound of his own voice anymore. It’s slower and faster and lower and higher, all at the same time. The turtles turn and see him and he lunges at them, fighting them off, trying to get to his mother, afraid they are going to hurt her again. They try to force him back into the kitchen but he watches as they drag her out, barely clothed, through the living room and out the front door, into the snow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss e- So this is what happens when you school me on how to make a pie crust at one in the morning! I remember you messaging me your recipe with such conviction and thinking how easy it is to make these two happy. And that will all make me smile for a long time. Thank you so much for your wisdom and encouragement, and for filling in the blanks. Much love, and see you on the other side!


	4. Chapter 4

Their canvas is the side of the shed. Rustic. Old like the house, but stronger with time. Walls rough like the landscape. 

They stand in a clearing, on the side facing away from the cabin. It’s a secret spot, but easily seen if you know where to look. Not hidden, just private.  

Their plan: to build a monument to the time they’ve spent here. Something solid but whimsical. A cold hard weapon creating a thing of beauty. The darkness creating the light.

The shed is a treasure trove. A fishing pole, the kitchen tool, a slingshot. And for some mysterious reason, dozens of unopened cans of paint, as if someone was caught interrupted in the middle of their life’s work. The color names evoking a mismatch of thoughts and feelings: Apple White, Cape Hatteras Sand, Manor Blue.

They’ve covered the side of the shed with bright balloons full of paint, hung in midair from invisible strings. Like candy falling from the sky, frozen in time. As if from a child’s mind, all the holidays rolled into one. They’ll use the old slingshot to pop the balloons, one by one, each spraying its paint onto the wall, until the entire canvas is covered with swirls of color.

Franny dances in circles around him. Hudson running after her, chasing squirrels. The excitement is building. They’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time.

Franny goes first. She settles and focuses, practicing her technique. When she’s ready, she walks closer to the side of the shed. The first shot is a miss. She moves a few steps farther back. Shakes her limbs loose and lines up again. Deep breath in and out, like he taught her. Shoulders relaxed. Arms steady, solid but not tense. Eyes on the goal. Another shot, and the colors burst.

She continues to pop the balloons. Sometimes aiming for a certain color, sometimes choosing at random. Occasionally she hands him the sling and lets him have a go. But he’d set up the framework. It’s her job to give it life.

At the end, there’s a stubborn one that they still haven’t been able to hit. The elusive unicorn. This one is his. He takes the slingshot in his hand. Draws in a breath. Closes his eyes and pictures the target in his head.  No bodies. No limbs. No heads drowning in a pool of mud. Just the rock gliding, slow motion, directly where he wants it to go. He takes the shot. Opens his eyes. A final explosion of color. Franny cheering, dancing. Hudson chasing. The wall a thing of joy. Known only to them, to stand for this time that will stay with them forever.

 

***************

 

Sitting outside his therapist’s office, he waits silently in the corner, watching another boy play with a push toy. The child laughs freely as the colored balls in the dome bounce around, taking turns settling into one of the holes on its floor, finding a quiet space. He follows the blue one, hoping for it to find a spot. He smiles as it gently drops into a hole on the edge, still for a moment. He startles as it’s quickly thrown up again with a loud pop.

Later, plastic smock on, he uses his middle three fingers to scoop the wet, sticky paint out of the clean, plastic jar. Smudges it on the blank white paper, smears it around with his hands. They’re working on an art project, what his therapist calls a collage. Every time he comes, he uses finger paint to make a picture of what’s happening at the time. In the end, she tells him, they will put them all together to make a type of blanket, like a quilt. A tapestry of his life.

 

*

 

He’d been given new clothes, a haircut, a toothbrush, a stuffie. He’d spent a few days in a room with some other kids and a bunch of adults to take care of them, then a couple of places with just a few kids and a couple adults, and now he’s come to a new home. His worker tells him he’ll be here for a while. He hasn’t seen his mom in a few weeks, since the police took both of them away. She tells him when his mother’s better, they can see each other again.

He’s met with the man and woman from this home a few times. They seem nice and have nice clothes, and talk about him coming to live with them and going to school. They ask if he has any questions. He has many: he wants to know where his mom is, and where the girl is, and where his old clothes are. But he doesn’t say anything.

He'd met with a lot of other grown ups too: doctors, workers, and even a judge. They’d asked questions, gave him a check up. Some played with him. They all seemed friendly, and he wanted to help. But there are things he had been told to never tell.

The worker and the man and woman talk for a while. She tells them that he can speak but is very quiet, that he likes to be given food, and then she says other things that seem like they’re in adult code. They ask if anyone knows of anything. She says that he is probably safe around other children, but that he has some behaviors so should be supervised just the same. They nod their heads, look over at him again and smile.

In his new home he has his own room. It doesn’t have a lock on it, which takes some getting used to. It has a window, but the window has a screen; he doesn’t want to break it, so he’s not sure he could get out. The living room has comfy furniture and a big tv that’s never on. The kitchen is clean, with a fridge full of food.

He starts school the very next day. He’s in kindergarten with about 20 other kids, all of whom look nicely dressed and not hungry. They sit in a circle on the floor as the teacher has him stand up. She introduces him to the class and tells them to say hi, which they do. He stays standing, his face feeling hot, until the teacher asks him to sit down. As she talks, the other kids finally turn their attention back to her.

He’s surprised that the kids all do what they’re supposed to. They have a schedule on the board with a time to work and a time to play. They learn the letters and numbers he’s seen on tv, then draw, go outside, and eat some more. He likes knowing what’s coming next, and the quiet with the no-surprises.

It’s the same at home. There’s a time for play and a time for snack and dinner. A time to take a bath and a time to read. The adults talk to him and listen, ask him for help. And they help him too. He wears different clothes every day and eats different food every day. He tries everything they give him, because he’s still scared that it might all be gone tomorrow.

At night he goes into his own room with the lights off and the door closed because he feels safer that way. There’s a small closet, and sometimes he sleeps in there with his blankets, pillow, and his new stuffie, because that feels safer too. He thinks about his mom and misses her and cries, and hopes that grown ups are taking good care of her as well. He wonders what happened to the girl, if she is in a safe place. When he’s tired and doesn’t want to think anymore, he goes through his letters and numbers, and tries to picture swirls of blackberry and ice cream.

Eventually, he gets to see his mom. He’s excited, but he’s not sure if it’s the good or the bad kind.

The first day they meet at an office, the same place he sees the worker and judge sometimes. His mom looks totally different now. Her hair is shorter and her clothes are new. She’s wearing lots of makeup. The moment she sees him she cries, which makes him cry as well. She walks over and bends down to hug him: she’s squishier than he remembers, and smells different, too. They sit at the table with the worker on his side, his mom looking at her like she needs help. She asks about his new home and his school. He does his best to tell her everything, but he’s still very nervous and confused. She says she’s been staying at a shelter, getting lots of help and trying to stay healthy, so that one day she can get him back.

The visit ends quickly, but before it does she gives him a present wrapped in thin tissue. He opens it slowly to try and save the paper. Inside is a toothbrush. He already has one now, but he doesn’t want to be rude so he just says thank you.

It’s a while before they’re allowed to meet outside the office. His worker picks him up to take him to the new home where his mom is staying. The place is shared with a bunch of grown ups, just like her old ones, but they are all women here, and it’s cleaner than the others. There are chalkboards like at school which his mom explains list “house rules” and “chores,” and there are schedules on the wall. There are also some kids who seem to be staying there with their mothers. His worker says that he’ll get to sleep over soon if things go well, and his mom looks at him and smiles proudly. He smiles back but also feels a little scared.

One day she shows up saying she has another present for him, but it’s not something wrapped up in a box. She tells him that she “met a man in rehab” and that she’s going to have a baby. His stomach drops and tears well up in his eyes. His heart races, and his head feels like it’s going to explode. His mom is holding her belly like there’s something inside that she wants to protect. He glances down, then back up at her face. She looks like she’s waiting for him to say something. He's not sure what she wants to hear, and he doesn't know what he wants to say.

When eventually he does get to stay the night, he finds out other ways his mom has changed. She has a routine now just like he does. She eats and drinks normally, and she doesn’t smoke. She has a coin that she carries around in her pocket and plays with at times without thinking. Her belly grows larger and larger until one day it pops, and the next thing he knows he shows up at the shelter, and there’s three of them now.

 

*

 

The last day he and his therapist meet, right before he goes back home, they finally finish their project. They take the pictures and tape each to the other to make the one big collage, then stick the whole thing, the colors of his life, to the office wall.

They stand side by side, studying his creation. Months of work, hope, all condensed down to this one moment. It’s a mix of shades, mostly greens and blues, pieces stuck together by his own little hands. Barely holding on.

Colorful. Pretty. He feels nothing.

Dirt under his fingernails. It’s a mess. It’s a lie.

As they watch, one panel in the middle left corner begins to slowly peel away from the rest, as if too tired to hold on any longer. He feels himself start to disappear as well, float away.

From another world, he feels his therapist gently place her hand on his shoulder. “John.” He snaps back and looks up at her, her face showing she finally understands now. “Go ahead,” she says.

A throbbing in his head. His heart beating fast. His breaths come in quick and deep, but he can’t get them back out; they fill his chest too tight. Anger rushes through his arms. His eyes blur, the colors in front of him fading, all turning to a hot, wet white.

He’s given permission: “Let it go.”

He takes in one last breath and screams, roars, so loud it scrapes his throat. He runs at the wall, tearing the paper with his claw-like hands. Shredding to bits the fake, lying pieces of his life. He throws the scraps up in the air, over and over, still screaming, crying, as the colors fall around him. Exploding. Destroyed. Till all that’s left behind is a blank white wall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> e- thank you for the vision and the final piece of the puzzle. i’m still not sure about the rest, but you are, so i guess it’s ok! much love...


	5. Chapter 5

The sun is high up in the sky now, the shadows on the pier short and crisp. It’s warm for this time of year.

He tells her this is her final exam, her chance to show him what she’s learned the last few months.

Glove on her right hand, she takes a good-sized night crawler out of the container they bought long ago and stored in the fridge. She talks to herself quietly as she pokes the worm through the middle, slowly but confidently, ensuring that it’s firmly attached. Once certain it’s on nice and tight, she looks up at him and beams widely, cocking her head a little with pride. The sunlight reflects off her lightly freckled face.

She walks to the edge of the dock, quite the picture in her silver sparkle flip flops and bright orange floaties. She starts to cast the line and he stops her, gently reminding to look around and give warning before flailing that hook in the air. She nods back with a serious expression, understanding her mistake.

“Try again, Franny.”

This time she gives a warning and he moves aside, as she brings the fishing pole over her shoulder and shoots it forward, across the deep blue lake. A near-perfect cast. He pats her on the shoulder and she smiles, keeping her eye on the bobber in the water, waiting for something to bite.

They talk for a while about the rest of their day, the books they’re reading, what they’ll make for dinner. Hudson rests at their feet, knowing to be still so as not to scare the fish. Quinn leans back on the dock’s bench, raising his face to the late-spring sky, the heat of the sun lulling him nearly to sleep.

Finally, something pulls at the line. She reels it in smoothly, lifting the rod as it gets closer to reveal a sunny on the end. She reassures the floppy fish while gently taking the hook from its mouth, wishing good luck as she throws it back into the water.

She sets the pole down on the bench, carefully securing the hook in its bracket. That done, she kicks off her shoes and floaties and looks up at him, asking for permission, backing away slowly. He nods and slips off his shoes as well.

They both stand on the edge of the dock and count to three before jumping in, Hudson close behind. The cold water hits them with a shock, the weeds tickling their feet.

  


*****************

  


The heat from the water fogs up the windows and mirror, creating a cocoon that separates them from the outside world. John’s locked the door to give his brother his evening bath. The child splashes in the water, speaking in his own toddler-invented language, playing his own toddler-invented game. John won’t let anyone else bathe him. He’s being extra careful, maybe too careful, but something tells him not to take any chances. He’s amazed by how much this boy trusts him, loves him, without his really having done anything to deserve it. It’s as if he chose John, and then it just became so.

Over time, he’s found he’s grown attached to his brother despite himself. He was used to other kids coming and going in the foster home, having to adapt to their needs, the way things changed, how they made more demands. He’d get familiar with them, some he would even grow to care for, but eventually they would all leave so that, like with his foster parents, he knew there was no point in getting too close. But this was different: his brother, as he was fully starting to accept that he was, is here to stay. And he began to see himself in him. It’s not just that they share the same color eyes and hair, the same dimples that always embarrass him so much. It’s actually the ways they are different that make more of an impression. His brother is carefree, careless, silly. He talks nonstop, never stops moving, only pausing to stuff food in his mouth. Occasionally looking up to see if anyone notices him, or more likely to make sure that somebody does. He’s like the boy inside John that never got to be.

And it doesn’t hurt that his brother is growing more attached to him as well. At first he was somewhat annoyed that he always seemed to be underfoot. John was getting to be a big kid- he had homework, he loved to read. But his brother always wanted to be with him more than anyone else. His mother said he looked up to him, preferred him to all others. John was the one he sought out when he was hurt, when he found a cool bug, when his bottle ran dry. And as much work as he was, John came to like the feeling of being someone else’s number one, his favorite person. And he knew he would do anything to protect him, even if it meant standing up to a grown man.

He had never seen his mom happy with any man, and sure enough, his mother’s boyfriend was changing over time. Or maybe he was finally showing himself as he truly was. At first, he was all over with love for her, bringing her gifts, flowers. Telling her how he couldn’t live without her, how she made him a better person, how she saved him. He talked her into quitting the job she’d worked so hard to get, insisting that it made him feel less of a man that they couldn’t live on the money he made. He wanted her to stay in the apartment that the four of them now shared, raising their child. Then he convinced her to stop taking her meds, saying they dulled her, telling her to take the pills he gave her instead. But to John, that just seemed to draw her further away. He felt her getting back to the place where he first lost her, the stability she’d fought so hard for slipping away.

John scrubs his brother clean. He covers his body with suds of soap, the tiny bubbles creating one big protective shell. He washes his legs and wishes for them to have the power to run far and fast, his belly so that it can always be filled with food, his back so that it can be straight and strong and carry his burdens lightly, his chest so his heart can be filled with love, his arms so that he can grow wings and fly. But the child keeps splashing water over his body, rinsing the bubbles off, popping them with his little fingers.

John swears that he will never let anything happen to him. He will do for his brother what no one did for him, and maybe somehow that will make it happen for him as well. Things aren’t right, but he knows better than to let anyone know. He doesn’t want them getting separated again.

He lifts his brother from the tub and dries him with a towel, the child continuing to talk and play. “You know you’re always safe with me, right?”

The boy stops chattering and looks him in the eye, as if speaking a truth he doesn’t yet know. Then suddenly, smiling, he taps John’s nose with the tip of his finger, “Boop!” and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> e- Thank you, as always, for everything! Much love.


	6. Chapter 6

  
They stand at the sink again, each in their own place: Franny on her step stool, Quinn at her side. The pie crust is ready for the last steps. He takes it out of the fridge, rolls out the base and sets it in the pan.

She works on the lattice with the  rest of the mixture. Cutting strips carefully with her  dedicated dull knife. Repeating the same gentle but solid movement, over and over. A practice in concentration.

He leaves to turn on the oven and comes back to find her staring out the window,  into space.

He places his hand on hers where it stopped mid-motion, the final strip half-cut. 

“Franny?”

Her eyes sharpen to a squint, as if  she’s trying to focus. He follows her gaze outside. 

“I think I forgot,” she says slowly, quietly.

“Forgot what?”

“Her.”

How did he not see this coming, the doubt? He’d known it was there. 

He’s not sure how to respond. “Well, what do you remember?”

She looks at him, too wise beyond her years. Shrugs her shoulders, answering his question with a question:  “The good stuff?” She shakes her head and looks away again. “I don’t know.”

He  knows what she’s feeling. Wanting to believe it’s all true. But feeling like a fool for doing so. He’s been there before. 

He’s tried so hard to teach her everything he can. So that she has the tools, the confidence, the knowledge. So she doesn’t make the same mistakes he did.

“You’ll always know how to find me,” he says.

She draws in a breath like it hurts, a slight panic in her voice. “What if I can’t? What if she won’t let me?”

What if he failed? He has to believe he didn’t. For her. She has to know he believes. “It’s ok to ask for help.” 

She nods. Leans her head on his arm for a second, turns her face into his sleeve and breathes in. God, she’s just a child. He forces down the anger, rests his cheek on top of her head. 

You can’t change other people. This is just the way it is. But they’re both stronger than that, than her. 

She shakes her body, shakes it off and gets back to work. She’s her mother’s daughter. But not. She’ll break the cycle, one way or the other. Whatever goes down, she’ll be fine.    
  


  
  


*************

  
  


At first, he wasn’t sure he wanted to visit his mother. It had been a few years, and he realized he didn’t know much about who he was and where he came from. There were still questions he wanted answered: about her, about him, about their past. So when the opportunity came up, he accepted.

He and his social worker waited for hours in a hot, muggy room crowded with pieces of families, in various combinations of tedium, impatience, and despair. A woman in a seat at the opposite corner gazed blankly in his direction, her expression not changing regardless of whether he looked away, stared back, or sneered. After some time they called his name, and he and his worker stood and crossed the room. When he looked back at the woman, she was still staring at the spot in which he’d sat. He realized she wasn’t looking at him, but at her reflection in the mirror directly behind him.

The two of them walk down a long, colorless hallway lined by doors with small windows, sunlight piercing his eyes intermittently as it shines through the portals. The guard in front of them carries what appears to be a taser in her holster, but it could very well be a gun. She moves slowly, ambling from side to side, as if challenging them to try to rush her, or try to  get by . His worker follows behind, and it strikes him that he doesn't feel like a visitor but a prisoner, marching down the corridor to his reckoning.

He thinks how funny it is that everyone remembers the firsts in their lives: the first day of school, the first time meeting a best friend, kissing a girl. But it’s usually harder to  know  the last time something happens: the last time changing a diaper, picking up a child, hearing a person’s voice.

The last time he saw his brother he was still a toddler, and as such he was careless, rambunctious, always getting into trouble. At first he’d tried to conceal his brother’s  misbehavior from the boy’s father, thinking if he didn’t notice him, he wouldn’t be a target. But over time he realized that it wasn’t just the child’s actions that led to the man losing control: his anger had a life of its own, born out of something he brought into this house from another life, fueled by whatever was in the drugs, the alcohol. And there was absolutely nothing his mother did to stop him, and to stop him from hurting her either. So it was up to John. Sometimes he’d create a diversion, draw attention to himself, trying to defuse whatever was building up inside the man. Sometimes he would sleep in the living room so he was the first thing the boyfriend saw when he got home, ready to fight. Sometimes he didn’t catch it in time and had to intervene  in the middle of one of his outbursts , using his body to block the  blows . He tried to fight back, but the truth is he was too small, and it was often easier to just ride it out. It got to the point that he was able to tolerate a lot of pain. 

One day he came home to find the entire situation of his family spilled on the front lawn. His mother, barely clothed, not making sense, hardly able to stand. The boyfriend in handcuffs, face red, spitting, yelling, kicking. His brother in the back of an ambulance, stunned, bruised, staring into space. A look he’d seen many times when looking at himself in the mirror. He tried to reach him, but before he could get there the rear doors closed in his face, and the ambulance drove away.

He doesn’t remember the last time he heard his mother’s voice.

He came here wanting answers, explanations. The truth is that he’s furious with his mother, for the situation that she’d put him, all of them, in. For not just letting herself be ripped away from her children, but ripping her children away from each other. His brother’s family had taken the child in. They knew the father had trouble and misguidedly took pity on him ; turns out they’d been raising his other children as well. But as far as they were concerned, John was his mother’s child, and she was the bad news  who dragged the man back into his old life.  They wanted nothing to do with John . So once again he moved through a series of shelters and group homes, becoming more and more comfortable just being on his own. No one’s responsibility, and responsible for no one.

He  knows his mother’s routine: she’ll cry, tell him how much she loves him, beg him for forgiveness. But he’s older now. And he isn’t going to fall for it. It isn’t going to stop him from telling her how he feels. 

He and his worker are led to a room where the outside world confronts those on the inside. Despite the sense of order created by the row of cubicles, a clear attempt through half-walls  at providing privacy , it all feels strangely disorienting and exposed. The social worker seems to sense his  hesitancy , and points towards a woman in the center. He approaches, but the person in front of him looks nothing like his mother. She’s dressed in a dark blue prison uniform. Her hair, straw-colored, looks fried and sticks out in every direction but the one it should. Her face is hollowed out, empty of color, expressionless. No sign of recognition. She’s grasping the prison phone, struggling to bring it back up to her face every time her hand starts to drift down. She sways slightly despite being seated. 

A fter a moment, he grabs the phone on his side of the wall, fist holding it tightly, hands shaking. He tried to prepare himself, but this image of  his mom  threatens to suck the life out of him. He pushes aside any compassion he has left and tries to force the words out. 

He hears a low hum from the other side of the phone line that seems to come from her. She begins to fall forward, and a long line of drool starts to fall from the corner of her mouth. 

He realizes in that moment that this is it, there is no going back. His mother is gone, probably has been for a while, but he hadn’t seen it. He blamed her for failing to save her family, but the truth is he’d fucked up just as much as she had. He thought he could protect his brother, keep them all together, keep his brother from going through what he had as a child. Instead, he’d stopped them from getting the help they really needed, including her.

His resolve gone now, he finds himself unable to speak, knowing this may be one of those last times that’ll stay with him forever. Several silent minutes pass before she slowly places the phone on the counter, stands up unsteadily and turns away, shuffles out the door. He’s left behind still holding the receiver, staring back at his own reflection in the wire-meshed glass of the cell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> e- one of the best friends I'll never meet (:
> 
> i never did fix that sentence
> 
> can we skip to chapter 8 now?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick notes...
> 
> Franny is taking a nap, so there will be no present day part in this chapter.
> 
> “X” does not refer to anyone from the HL world. I just stubbornly refused to give him a name.

Tonight, heading back, he walks through one of his favorite neighborhoods in the city. It’s not the fanciest, or the wealthiest, but somehow that just adds to its appeal, makes it seem more attainable. It’s quiet, so he strolls down the center of its wide streets under the branches of the overgrown oaks, light from the streetlamps filtering through the trees. The houses on either side are of various shapes and sizes, some with peaked roofs, some flat on top. What they all have in common is that they’re lit from the inside, lived in. A few have the curtains on their windows drawn open despite it being well past nightfall. He glances as he walks and can see inside, at times can even see people. He imagines his own family in one of these houses, him as the father, a wife, a couple of kids. Food on the table, everyone with their own bed.

As he continues walking he gets closer to the neighborhood where he’s been staying nowadays. The streets gets narrower, the trees fewer and farther between. The quiet is replaced by the occasional siren, voices calling distantly from darkened buildings. He rounds a corner and sees a group of people, several guys a little older than he is, their voices raised, their laughter a little too loud. And in the center of the group, a girl. He’s seen her before hanging around the tenements, but they’ve never spoken. She’s always stood out to him for reasons about which he isn’t sure, something familiar in the way she moves, her attitude. Tough but guarded, fragile at the same time.

As he gets closer, he sees she isn’t comfortable with the situation she’s in. Her eyes dart from one face to another. She makes sudden movements to get out of the circle but is trapped, like an animal surrounded by predators. He’s tall for his age, and tough himself, still he knows he can’t take these out guys on his own. But he can’t let this go. He makes a split-second decision.

“Hey!” he calls out, standing up straighter and walking with longer, more purposeful strides. “X has been looking for you.”

The young men turn in unison as the girl walks towards him, slowly at first, then with more confidence. “Well,” she says, “I guess you can tell him you found me.”

Good, she’s in on the play. Giving her a disapproving look now: “You’re in some serious shit. What’s the hold up? They pay?”

The group watches as the girl slides up to him, putting her arm through his.

“You’re one of X’s?” asks the guy in front, studying her skeptically.

“Yeah, that a problem?”

“You’re a little scrawny for him, aren’t you? A little young?”

“You don’t believe her?” John challenges. “Come back with us. Ask him yourself.”

The guy looks him over once more before answering. “Nah, I’m not messing with this shit. She’s all yours.”

“You sure you don’t want to come?” he calls after them as they walk away. “Because X would love to get to know you. He’s always looking for new customers.”

“No thanks. I’m not going near that son of a bitch.”

John and the girl wait until the group is several blocks away, then step apart. “Thanks,” she says, adding unconvincingly, “but I had that under control.”

“Sure,” as he starts to walk on. After several steps, he stops, turns around. “You coming? They’ll probably be back.”

She looks off in their direction, seeming to weigh her options, then turns to him and nods. He says nothing but beckons with his head, waiting for her to catch up. They walk down the dark street and turn at an alley, the wind picking up in the tunnel between the buildings. Her body starts to shake, her breathing a little more ragged.

“You’re shivering,” he notes.

“Yeah,” she says unsteadily. “It’s just... it just got a little cold.”

Bracing against the breeze, he takes off his coat and places it around her shoulders. “Better?” he asks.

“Yeah, much better,” wrapping it more tightly around her, rubbing her eyes with the palm of her hand.

“Hey,” he says, touching her arm lightly. “You’re going to be ok now.”

She breathes a deep sigh as she nods, face to the ground as she walks. “How did you know?” she asks faintly.

“How’d I know what?”

“Who I was?”

Contemplating how to answer, he looks down at her then ahead again. “I’ve seen you around.”

“And you know X?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Because people don’t just  _ know _ X.”

He keeps a blank expression. “What can I say?”

They walk on a little farther in silence. She glances up at him occasionally, and he can tell that she’s thinking.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you around too,” her voice a little softer now. “Thanks, for real. I owe you,” she adds with a bit of unease. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“John.”

She smirks. “Seriously? John?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I know.”

“It doesn’t quite fit you.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Hmmm,” she considers. “Let me think about it.”

They climb up the stairs to his room, one of many where other squatters stay. It’s in an abandoned building, not worth the effort of the police to sweep clean on a regular basis. Luckily, tonight, his sleeping bag and backpack have been left undisturbed.

He follows her gaze, seeing the room through her eyes: cold, barren, shapeless. “You stay here alone?” she asks.

“Yeah. People don’t bother each other much round this place.”

She draws a deep breath, resigned. "Okay..." Walking over, she looks him directly in the eye, as her hands reach for the button of his jeans.

With a start, he realizes what she’s doing. “No,” he stops her

She steps back, squinting in confusion. “Well, isn’t that why you brought me here?”

He’s taken aback, both abashed and dismayed by the question. The thought had never even occurred to him. “I brought you here to keep you safe.”

She frowns, puzzled, still not convinced. “Nothing is free.”

“Yeah,” chuckling under his breath. “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Making a show of hiding both hands in his pockets, he gives her a reassuring nod and a bow. “They won’t come out all night. Promise,” as he gestures towards the sleeping bag with his shoulder. “You can stay here.”

She considers his offer, still deciding if she can trust him. “How do I know you won’t try something later?”

He backs up and she laughs as, hands still trapped, he slides down awkwardly against the wall, stretching his legs in front of him. “Well, for one, those guys were right. I’m not messing around with X.”

Suddenly dispirited, she shifts her gaze and nods, then turns her attention back to him. “And second?”

“I’m not that kind of guy. And you’re not that kind of girl.”

She steps back, seeming somewhat thrown, rubbing her left shoulder with her right hand. After one last look around, she crawls slowly into the sleeping bag, turning on her side to face him. “And how would you know that, John? Really?”

He surprises himself with his answer: “Because I’ve seen you.”

Their eyes lock across the room, a bridge of silence between them. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

She takes in a breath like it’s painful, and he’s not sure that she can go on. When she lets it out there’s a shift in the room, as if they’ve crossed a line, and things will never be the same. “I need you to understand.”

She tells him her real name and her life story. She was very young when her parents split. Her father moved back to his home country with his new family. They used to talk on the phone, but she barely hears from him anymore. Her mom had a series of boyfriends, the last of which was a really bad guy. Someone finally asked the right questions, and she eventually told. The police got involved, but there wasn’t enough evidence, so they slapped a restraining order on him and they went about their lives. Problem was, her mom didn’t believe her and continued to let him come around. By then she was older, and he was smart enough not to try anything. Still, she didn’t feel safe in that house with him and the memories it held. She spent more and more time away from home, on the streets. Some people found her, gave her a safe place to stay, but it took her awhile to realize that nothing is without a price. She was roped into working for X, and by then it was too late. They threatened to go to the police, tell her family. It isn’t what she wanted, but here she is, trapped, with nowhere to go.

Her voice dies out, and the silence nearly tears him apart. Despite how painful it is to hear her story, and how different it is from his, there's a truth in it, a connection, that he just can't shake.  He’s heard ones like it before, but there is something about this one, about it being _her_ story, that cuts to the core. That brings up emotions that he can't make sense out of. It's more than just sadness, compassion, anger… it’s as if he’s spoken through her. Her story isn’t his, but he feels it just as deep as if it were his own. She wanted him to understand, and he does. And suddenly, he needs her to understand too.

It’s been years since he talked, really talked, with anyone. There’s a part of his mind that’s screaming for him to open his mouth, spill his guts. But he’s afraid she won’t get it, will just shut him down. And that would make everything worse. He finds he desperately wants to tell her the ugly truth of it all, how he fucked it up. How he tried to save them, but…

“John, it’s not your fault.”

The voice he hears isn’t from his head. It’s not his voice. It’s hers. He feels his heart… It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t race, it doesn’t break. It comes alive. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, and reaffirming, all at the same time. And also, too much. Turning away, he suddenly can’t bare her seeing him.

“John…?”

“Yeah, I heard you,” he says, more sharply than intended. Immediately wishing he could take it back.

She stares at him quietly. He’s afraid he’s lost his chance, thinking he knows what she’ll say next. But to his surprise, she just sighs and tells him, “You know you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

He smiles a bit, still off-guard, and does his best to soften his attitude. “Well, if you’re going to take my sleeping bag, you should probably go to sleep.”

She smiles back, understanding, then mimicking his tone. “Well, ok then,” and shakes her head. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, gentler. "Goodnight, John. See you on the other side."

She rolls over, facing away now, and he can tell by her breathing that she quickly falls asleep. He stays up a while watching her, still leaning against the wall. Wondering if he blew it. Or narrowly escaped? He’s not entirely sure. Lying on the bare floor, he tells her without words the story of his life that he couldn’t just now. That someday, maybe, he’ll have the chance to tell her again.

He wakes up hours later, stuck in the same spot, the moon through a window like a spotlight in his eyes. Looking around in the dark, he sees the room anew, as if the glow from outside has transformed its four walls. He’s relieved to see her still form in the sleeping bag.

The ground beneath him is hard, cold, but the air around him is not. He shifts and finds himself covered by a blanket, a makeshift pillow from her clothes by his side. His first instinct’s to kick them off, reject this, but instead he laughs at his pointless insolence. Isn’t this what he said he always wanted? He takes a chance, pulling her clothes under his head, surrounding himself with her scent. The last thing he remembers as he drifts off to sleep is wrapping himself more tightly with the blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> e- protobunny. Thanks as always for helping me think it through, dude.


	8. Chapter 8

He can’t save them all.

He starts out still smelling of the day: pie and fish and books and chocolate. The sounds of feet stepping on twigs. Heat on his shoulders. The colors of blackberries and the afternoon sun.

He descends the stairs. It’s musty inside. He’s not sure he wants to go in. It’s like a portal to another world.

The image of Schrödinger's cat flashes through his mind, phrases like “the road not taken” and “there but for the grace of God…”

He considers turning around but stops himself. He hears Franny’s voice in his head, chanting one of their favorite sayings: “Eat your broccoli first.” She’s right. Time to get it over with.

He dials the number and waits. They’ll only have so much time before it disconnects. Self destructs. It’s a blessing, really.

The line picks up. In the background he hears the clicking of heels, rushed breathing, exasperation. A voice on the other end of the line, clipped and sharp:

“Hey. Are we still a go?”

He chuckles sarcastically, almost silently: “Yeah. Still a go.”

A huff. “Thank god.”

An interminable 10 seconds go by. It’s as if time is stretching out. He feels his muscles clenching.

A slammed door, the scrape of a chair, a guilty conscience:

“I don’t understand why it has to be this way,” she says.

“We’ve been over this,” he reminds her.

“So you made up your mind. Is that really fair to her?”

He feels a sharp pain through his heart. It really is killing him inside, and she knows it. How dare she. But is it really surprising? Some things never change. “Look in the mirror,” he says. “Is any of this really fair to her? To anyone?”

She completely misses the point, or maybe she just chooses to ignore it, and charges on: “We’re survivors, you and I,” she says.

“Maybe,” he responds. “But we wouldn’t survive each other.

Mercifully, the line goes dead.

He takes a deep breath, his hands through his hair. Broccoli, done. Franny would be proud.

It’s what he knew all along but couldn’t accept. He can’t save them all. Because some of them don’t want to be saved.

But some of them do.

He dials another number.

The line picks up. In the background he hears the sounds of a kitchen. Clinking glasses, cupboards squeaking, water running.

“Hey there,” a voice says warmly. “I was just thinking about you.”

His heart rate slows. His tensions soften. How can the sound of one person make everything else just melt away?

He smiles. “Hey back.”

She breathes out a chuckle. He closes his eyes, and it’s like he’s there again. He swears there’s the voice of a young child in the background. It’s like the last ten years never happened.

“We still on?” he asks, relaxed, confident. It’s more a promise than a question.

A gentle whirring, a dog barking. Laughter. The sounds of home.

“Are you kidding?” she says. “It is _so_ on.”

  


***************

 

He’s always had a sixth sense about these things. Problem is, lately his timing’s been off, and he doesn’t realize it till it’s already happened.

He takes the stairs two at a time, the panic rising in his chest. Knowing before he gets inside that something is seriously wrong.

He’s come back to find her sitting in his spot against the wall. Staring off into space, her face stained with dried tears. Covered with bruises.

He’s begged her to quit but she says he would find her, punish her, and she’d be worse off then than she is now. Would lose her freedom, would have to leave town to get away. And, partly because of him, she won’t do that. And he doesn’t want to lose her either.

He’s thought about taking care of it himself. Getting a gun. Taking him out. You cut off the head of a snake, and the body will die. But it’s also true that the head will still bite for hours after. Some say that two will grow back in its place.

He cleans her up. He has supplies on hand for times like these. Finds some ice, some bandages. He doesn’t know if they made her take anything, so he can’t give her anything for the pain. The sting from the antiseptic calms her. Brings her back down to earth.

They both have moments like this, sometimes coming from something one of them has seen. Sometimes a dream. Sometimes out of nowhere. Like seeing a parent and child together, hearing the parent scream, bracing for the sound of the slap.

They’ve learned what the other needs when it happens. She needs touch, weight holding her down, keeping her from drifting off into space.

He needs to let it out, like putting it in a balloon, and letting it fly away. He needs to feel heard. But he can’t always do it on his own. He needs her to draw him out.

They both know what the other can stand, what they can handle, what they can’t. When they can’t. When to keep pushing through, and when to let go.

Things got confused. Wires crossed like a knot of twine. Together, they are trying to untangle them. 

He unzips the sleeping bag and climbs in next to her, throwing extra blankets around them. She’s warm, too warm, but shivering just the same. He digs his head into her bare back. There’s a tattoo there. A sunburst, covering a scar. He wraps himself around her, his muscles so taut and tightly wound that he’s shaking. Trying not to hold her so hard that it hurts her.

She doesn’t smell like herself. Copper and sweat, and like somebody else. He wants to turn away, but he can’t let her go. He hopes that his scent rubs off on her.

He thinks about how much he loves this girl.

He wakes up as she turns around next to him, her hand moving up his forearm. A brief, desperate flicker of remorse in her eyes before something like acceptance, an understanding passing between them. He finally sees the recognition in her eyes, as she curls into a ball against his chest. Relieved to see they will make it, live to survive another day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi e- You asked for it. Are you still sorry? Well don’t be, because it was there all along.  
> Thanks, as always!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The order of the two sections is reversed here.
> 
> And it's not plagiarism if I copy my own work, right?

Lying on the cot, his right arm numb underneath him, a crook in his neck. He realizes he’d finally fallen asleep. He was awakened by a dream, a variation of one he’d had throughout his life. He’s standing in the middle of a lush, green field, wide as the ocean, stretching to meet the sky at the horizon. Standing evenly spaced around him, identically clothed in bright yellow robes, are his mother, his brother, and the girl. They all look up as a bright light descends, as if pushing them down. It suddenly disappears with the sound of thunder like a sonic boom, sending the three of them scurrying in different directions, running from him at breakneck speed. He feels a weight in his hands and looks down at the rifle which has appeared there, and understands that he is to shoot one of them to save the others. When he’s had this dream before, it’s an impossible decision to make, and they all die. This time, however, he sees a fourth person running towards him. He raises his rifle and looks through the scope. Realizing it’s himself, he fires.

He’s been in this cell before, or at least ones like it, many times by now. Usually he’s in for something petty and foolish, barely worth their effort. He’s not even sure what the charges are this time. They didn’t let him know, let alone read him his rights. Just picked him up off the street, cuffed him, and dragged him in, before he could bother to put up a fight.

He does know what it’s really about, though. The girl had come back roughed up one too many times. He couldn’t stand for it anymore. So, moron that he is, he finally decided to do something about it, even though she tried to stop him. Trying to take down X on his own, with all his ties to organized crime, was probably the craziest thing he’d ever done. It almost worked. And, apparently, it got the attention of some very important people.

A man had come to see him earlier that day, a man who carried himself in a way that made it clear he was in control, despite how out of place he seemed in this hellhole. Something about the way he approached with such command felt like a challenge, made John puff up his chest and take a few steps towards him. He thought maybe this would intimidate the man, turn him away. But it just seemed to peak his interest even further.

“You’re the strangest looking lawyer I’ve ever seen.”

“You know that’s not why I’m here.”

The man went on to tell him that his actions against X had made quite the impression on his colleagues. He’d nearly exposed an entire operation they’d been following for years, had devoted a lot of resources to. If it weren’t for his one error in judgment, John would have accomplished something that the organization had failed to repeatedly, despite the efforts of some of their best men.

“Where’s the girl?” John asked.

“Oh, her,” the man responded, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “She’ll be fine. She may serve some time, be sent out of state.” John winced, and the man smirked disparagingly. “Did you really think it would work out any other way? What did you think it was? Love?”

He knew he shouldn’t listen, but the words had been spoken, and now he couldn’t get them out of his head. And the man wasn’t wrong. What did John really think he would accomplish? Did he really think this would change anything? Did he really believe they could be together forever? Live a normal life?

Sensing an opening, the man pushed on: “Truth is, we’ve had our eye on you for some time now, John.”

He continued, answering questions about John’s life that no one had been able to answer before. His father was a con man, likely brilliant; but like all criminals, he inevitably got caught in his own lies, and was now in prison for life. His mother was a foster kid herself, never knew her own family. Had a long list of issues, enough such that with the limited background the system had on her, it was hard to know which came first. His parents met when they were both living on the streets. His father never claimed him as his own, probably never laid eyes on him.  Multiple referrals to CPS had been made over the years from the time John was an infant- neglect, failure to protect, a range of abuses- most declared unfounded or unable to be substantiated.

“It’s amazing you made it this far. Though in the direction you’re heading now, you may not have many chances left.”

John didn’t know if a word the man said was true, but it was nearly the same story he’d told himself for years. It was as if the man could read his mind, as if he was being held under a microscope. It made him squirm, shrink before his eyes, but at the same time, he felt strangely seen, understood. “Do you have a point?”

“You’ve been on your own for years, John. Is this really what you want for yourself?”

The truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted, but as he looked at the walls of his cell, he knew it wasn’t this.

“Are you offering me a job?” John asked.

“I’m offering you a way out.”

A way out. The words played themselves over and over in his head while the man kept speaking:

“Come with me. Make something of yourself. Yes, you fucked up. Probably more than once. But we see the potential. You’re bigger than this, John. Don’t waste your life.”

Maybe _this_ is what he always wanted. For years he’d found himself in situations where he tried to save people from themselves, from others. He went in with the best of intentions, but only made things worse for them, for him.

“We’ll make a great team.”

A vision goes through his mind of a dog, its neck in a collar, a man behind holding the leash. The dog walks in front; it thinks it’s the one in charge, taking the lead, making the choices. But really it’s the guy behind him, subtly pointing in the direction he wants him to go. He realized this was the truth all along. He thought he was making the decisions in his life, but really he was just a dog in a collar, his fate determined by the people in control, who had that control all along.

But this time, he had a choice. If he wasn’t meant to be the one in control of his life, maybe he could choose who would be. Maybe it was time to let someone else take the lead. He didn’t want the responsibility anymore.

  


***********************

  


Last night, he’d had the dream one final time.

The day started with clear skies, typical cold in the morning, the sun rising and quickly thawing the frost. There was the low rumble of thunder echoing from the mountains, a rare late-spring snowstorm, but it wouldn’t be coming any closer.

They wait on the porch facing the lake, peeking around the corner, watching and listening as the car drives up the dirt and gravel road. Hudson runs a few last laps along the dock, sensing what’s to come. Franny bobs up and down with anticipation, murmuring under her breath, barely able to contain her excitement. He lays his hand on her head to help her settle, and she looks up at him. His own emotions are reflected in her eyes, a longing for something that isn’t even quite gone, and yet they both know that really, it is. He checks himself and smiles, and she smiles back, both knowing in their own way that it was meant to end like this. He picks her up one last time and holds her tight in his arms, makes a wish.

The driver pulls up, and she steps out the backseat, pulling a large bag behind her. He motions to set Franny down, and she’s already half-turned towards her in his arms. Her feet barely touch the steps as she goes. She runs, arms open wide, as her mother crouches down to meet her, and they tumble into each other. He watches, giving them this moment, heart heavy and full, as she puts her hands on her daughter’s face, as they touch forehead to forehead. They both talk excitedly through tears in words he’s not meant to hear. Franny finally steps back, gesturing towards the house, and heads back in his direction. They grasp hands briefly as she runs by and into the cabin, motioning to her mother to wait, be patient.

Quinn comes around the corner, descends the steps and approaches her. She walks towards him, hesitantly at first, measuring the situation. Then quickly, with more resolve, as she throws her arms around him.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’ve been given a second chance. Not everyone gets that.”

“I know.”

“Just don’t fuck it up.”

She laughs through tears and steps back. “She’s going to miss you.”

He knows it’s the truth, the one downside. “I’m going to miss her too. But she has you now. That’s all she really needs.”

She takes a deep breath and looks away, nods repeatedly, then looks back at him. “And what about you?”

He reaches over to pick up his backpack, throws it over his shoulder, heads over to the car. “I’ve been given a second chance too, if he’ll have me.”

In the dream last night, he’s standing again in the center of the field, surrounded by the people he cares for. The light descends, the thunder rumbles, and as usual, the others scatter. He looks through the scope of his rifle and sees a figure running towards him. But this time, it’s not him. It’s a child, a boy a few years older than Franny. The boy barrels towards him, taking boundless steps that seem to defy gravity, outstretched arms. He lowers the rifle and for the first time realizes… This impossible choice, it’s not so impossible. It’s his choice. His chance. He is in control now. He drops the rifle and runs towards the boy, laughing out loud, arms open wide.

Free.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last time.
> 
> For e- Thank you for battling with me over every word. Q has you to thank for many of the more loving bits.  
> I think the last part is the only one I really wrote through tears.
> 
> For Vanni- You asked for it. I hope I did it justice. If not, you can disown this. (:
> 
> Much love to you both.
> 
> Thank you to all those who read, and all those who commented. This story would be here whether anyone came by or not, but I posted hoping others would be interested, and I'm grateful to you all for being here.
> 
> There isn’t going to be an epilogue, but if you want to see what it would have been, check out
> 
> [Live Long And Prosper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13298571)
> 
> Update: My friends here wrote an epilogue from their hearts
> 
> [Breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897354)
> 
> At the risk of sounding presumptuous, this is for all the Peter Quinns of the world, if you want it. You will not be swept under the rug. Your stories will be heard.


End file.
